


How Do You Celebrate

by novelized



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: “It’s my birthday,” Boris tells him, and Theo opens his mouth, closes it, thinks wildly:is that right?
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 171
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	How Do You Celebrate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [th_esaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/gifts).



Theo’s half-asleep on the sofa when the knock comes. Mouth hanging open, glasses starting to slip down the bridge of his nose; he had been reading, or trying to, for the better part of an hour, but the words were swimming around on the page. Half a glass of wine with dinner, and three for dessert. He was cutting back. The apartment had been silent. He had considered putting something on, but the idea of choosing a song—an artist—a genre—had exhausted him. So there was silence, still and steady, and then: the knock.

He jerks awake, and stares at the door. For a long moment he hesitates, doesn’t move, barely breathes, because in his experience, little good had ever come from unexpected drop-bys in the middle of the evening. But then there’s a second knock, or, more accurately, a series of second knocks, louder and more urgent, and this time, a voice follows after: “Potter! Don’t make me call for welfare check. I think you do not want the police beating down your door!”

Theo scrambles up, and throws the door open.

Boris, of course, is on the other side.

It has been—he doesn’t know how long it’s been. Time feels conspicuously incongruent, these days, and that’s not even due to substances. Just—real life. Just cleaning up messes. He feels like a kid, sometimes, with everything he has still to learn.

“Where is Popchyk?” Boris demands, in lieu of a proper greeting. In lieu of explanations. In lieu of decent manners, at all.

Theo’s caught off guard enough that his answer comes out in broken fragments. “Hobie’s—I got back late tonight—picking up tomorrow —Boris what are you doing here?”

“It’s my birthday,” Boris tells him, and Theo opens his mouth, closes it, thinks wildly: _is that right?_ He should know. It feels like something he should know. At some point he’d known Boris as well as he’d ever known himself. Or, he’d thought he had—before the painting, and years of not knowing. An incredible amount of youthful indiscretions. Like drinking, and smoking, and Boris. 

Boris is wrapped in a heavy coat, and a disheveled scarf: dishwater grey and frayed at the edges, and he looks too skinny underneath, but then, he always has. Underfed and overdrank. He leans forward and glances into the apartment, at the wooden coat rack by the door, then looks at Theo with raised eyebrows, like _a coat rack, wow! how adult we are now!_

“Happy birthday,” Theo says, maybe a moment too late.

Boris nods solemnly. “Thank you. I don’t care about birthdays much, but this year? Not so good. I was in Leuven; do you know Leuven? no? we should have gone—so many breweries, best beer anywhere in Europe, I think—the women, though—” He waves his hand back and forth, halfhearted. “Anyway. I am there, alone, you know how I get, and I am thinking, what is the best birthday I ever had? Then I remember: fourteen. That was my best. You made me a cake, do you remember?”

Theo does remember: vodka-drunk and making a mess, and laughing. Clouds of white flour clinging to everything: the stovetop, Theo’s hair. The tip of Boris’s nose. Loose-handed and knocking a pie dish off the counter, an explosion of glass under bare feet; Boris picking a shard out of Theo’s pinky toe, intent and careful, weirdly careful, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth.

Theo swallows. “I remember. It was an old box mix. We didn’t have any eggs. It tasted like shit.”

“Yes,” Boris agrees. “It tasted like shit. But it was the first birthday cake I had in a long, long time. And so it was my favorite.”

It had been—a fairly banal day, as far as birthdays went. Leftover chicken wings and lukewarm screwdrivers and the house quiet and hazy and _here’s your gift_ , half-joking, on the living room sofa—

Theo clears his throat. “So... you flew three thousand miles for me to make you a cake?”

Boris laughs, big and unrestrained. It echoes down the hallway, a reverberation of Borises. “Yes. Yes! I flew three thousand miles so you would make me another cake that tastes like shit. No, you idiot. Fourteen was my best birthday because I spent it with you. I thought, this birthday? What do I want to do? What would make it good?” He points squarely at Theo, pokes him a few times in the ribcage. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” Theo repeats. He’s not sure what Boris wants. He feels trapped in the doorway; Boris on one side, Theo on the other. Coming or going. One and the same.

“Come eat with me,” Boris says, surprising him. “Did you eat already? Doesn’t matter, I have ideas.”

“Boris, I’m—”

Boris raises his eyebrows. He has flown halfway across the world and landed here; no warning, no call ahead. “It’s my birthday,” he says again, very seriously. “I think, Potter, that you are not allowed to say no.”

***

There’s a place in the East Village; Boris is sure of it. He keeps insisting, insisting, dragging Theo down busy sidewalks, stopping and staring hard at street signs, brow furrowed, and then shaking his head, cursing occasionally, and tugging him back the opposite way. The air outside is brisk and biting, and Theo’s eyes water from the cold. Boris scoffs when he suggests looking directions up on his phone; “wouldn’t find it on there, is not a fucking McDonalds, I’m telling you, though, we are close,” he keeps saying, even though they’re not; keeps pausing mid-stride, nearly causing pedestrian collisions, tourists stuttering out frantic apologies, New Yorkers telling them to fuck right off.

Finally, Boris halts in front of a shuttered chiropractic office, brick-walled and iron-fenced, and yells with delight. “This!” he says, and pulls Theo towards a secluded basement entrance. The stairs are dark and cramped, and at the bottom there’s a door, dusty lamplight and aged cobwebs, a crumbling sign and foreign letters. Boris makes a little self-satisfied noise and charges on in. 

A severe-looking woman greets them at the entrance. She’s got wrinkled skin and a floral headscarf, a deep-set frown, and she eyes them with distrust. “We close in fifteen minutes,” she says, her accent heavy. Behind her, there are six tables jammed against walls, cheap folding tables with picnic-print tablecloths, laminated menus in cardholders, and fluorescent lights that gives the room an artificial, sterile sort of glow. It reminds him of the Chinese restaurant in Las Vegas, where they used to dine-and-dash; a shitty thing to do, Theo thinks, even for poor kids with shitty fathers. Another reparation to add to the list.

Boris says something to the woman that Theo can’t understand—Polish, he thinks, even though it’s been ages since he’s heard it; deeply nostalgic, poetic and sharp—and her entire demeanor immediately changes. Softens; relaxes. She says something back—a question, from the lilt of her voice, and Boris answers, and then jerks a thumb at Theo. Her gaze follows, and her expression is so solemn, so pitying that Theo immediately feels self-conscious, an all too familiar tug. He flashes her a strained reassuring smile, even though he doesn’t know what he’s reassuring her of. She pats both of them on the arms, as light as a mother’s touch, and then turns and disappears into the kitchen. Theo rounds on Boris the second she’s gone.

“What did you say to her?”

Boris shrugs. “That you are starving boy rescued from hole. Not had a good meal in weeks, I tell her, that is why you are so—what is the word? Unnourished?”

“Malnourished,” Theo murmurs, “and shut up.” 

“We will get better food this way, I promise.” Boris leads him to a table in the corner, drops down into a flimsy seat, legs spread wide. Makes himself at home. “Babcia will make sure you are well fed. It is, as we say, their duty.”

Theo follows him, of course. His chair feels unsturdy; could break at any moment. “I think that’s not politically correct,” he says, and Boris laughs.

“No. Not politically correct. But—” He picks up a straw, points it directly at Theo. “True, no?”

The old woman brings them both ice cold beers, even though Theo doesn’t see it anywhere on the menu, waves away their gratitude as if insulted by the thought. Boris raises his in a toast to her and she swats at him fondly before disappearing back behind the counter. Theo thinks he’ll feel awful tomorrow, mixing wine and beer, and drinks anyway. It’s deeply gratifying, that first pull. He wonders how much they’ve got to suck up to get another.

Boris talks while they wait for their food, and he says it all in the same upbeat, matter-of-fact voice, like his life was a moderately interesting wildlife documentary; his wife leaving him in one breath (“leaving!” he huffs, “how can you leave when you are already gone!”), his travels in another (“finally made it back to Papua New Guinea,” he says, shakes his head; “good, but better in my memory; is that not how it always is?”), blacking out in Belgium and waking up with a stranger’s locket around his neck; motorcycle crashes and parties, deciding to start exercising, and then taking it back the next morning (“lungs are shot,” he says, “and also, I am masochist, but not in that way”); he talks for so long that Theo’s not sure he’s stopped for breath since they entered the restaurant, and only cuts himself off when the woman reappears with a second round of beers and an overloaded tray.

It is an embarrassment of riches, and Theo, who hadn’t been hungry until the food appeared, feels his stomach drop at the sight: plump sausages and dumplings, steaming hot, stuffed cabbage and mushrooms, breaded pork cutlets with a drizzled orange sauce, potatoes and pierogi, at least four different kinds, and a handful of other dishes Theo can't name; Boris lets out a deep, gratified sigh, thanks the woman in Polish—Theo clumsily copies him—and picks up his fork.

“No more cheersing to drinks,” Boris says, shoveling whatever’s nearest into his mouth, too big bites, so his table manners haven’t improved any, “from now on, we cheers only to food.” 

Theo thinks it’s his turn to talk, but doesn’t particularly feel up to it; he helps himself to the food, instead, asks questions about what they’re eating, boring, inane questions, but Boris takes them in stride, spends a full minute patiently teaching him how to say _zrazy zawijane_. When they’re mostly reduced to spills and crumbs, the woman reappears, smiles and pats Theo on the head like he’s done something clever, and makes an offhand comment to Boris, who sits up straighter and preens. 

“What’d she say?” Theo asks, once she’s gone again.

Boris casts him a furtive look, then laughs. “She says we are cute couple,” he crows. “Politically correct, you ask! Even Polish grandmothers are politically correct now!”

A wave of heat clambers up the back of Theo’s neck. He’s full and uncomfortable and not entirely sure the two are related. “Well, you told her we’re not, right?”

“Not what? Not cute? Speak for yourself, Potter. Me, I am very cute.”

“Not a _couple_.”

Boris studies him, clearly amused. “No. I did not tell her. What good would it do? Let her think what she wants to think.” 

“But it’s not true.”

“True!” Boris repeats, and taps his beer against the tabletop with a _clink_. “What does it matter if it’s true? She brings us food, she gives us drinks. You may never see her again unless, of course, you come back to eat again tomorrow. I’m considering it, already. This goulash—best I ever had, I think.”

“Fine,” Theo says, and throws his napkin back on the table. _Fine_ , like an aggrieved wife. He’s irritated at himself and doesn’t even know why. “So… what are your other plans?”

“Plans?”

“Birthday plans. In the city. What else are you doing?”

Boris shrugs again, nonplussed. “No plans,” he says. “I came to see you.”

Theo’s not sure what to say to that, but Boris doesn’t wait for a response. He fumbles back into his winter layers so Theo follows suit, buttons his coat with clumsy fingers. They drain their beers and then Boris leaves an absurd amount of cash on the table, just empties out his pockets of bills and coins, perhaps not even all the same currency, calls another thank you towards the kitchen, and then they make their way back outside into the bitterly cold air. Boris takes a deep breath through his nose, exhales a cloud of air through his mouth, and then grins. “I love New York. Smells like shit, but do you know what? Never pretends to smell like flowers.”

“It is what it is,” Theo agrees.

“It is what it is,” Boris repeats, thoughtfully drawing the words out. He snorts. “What a stupid phrase. Still, yes. It is what it is.”

They walk back the way they came, fewer detours this time, and Boris lights a cigarette and passes it to Theo. He doesn’t light a second for himself; he waits for it to be handed back, shared between them, like when they were thirteen and nicking from Xandra’s stash—Theo feels a pang, for a second, that he can’t quite name, so he says nothing. Just walks and smokes.

“Let’s get a drink,” Boris says. “Don’t care where—you choose. None of these ‘hipster bars,’ though. You are trying to grow beard out?” He reaches over and brushes his knuckles against Theo’s cheek, startlingly quick; Theo jerks his face away without meaning to. There’s a rash of stubble on his cheek, hardly a beard, from a few days’ laziness and experimentation, inconsequential enough that he hadn’t thought Boris would notice. Boris drops his arm back to his side and laughs to himself.

Theo shoves his hands in his pockets and wishes he’d brought gloves. The sidewalks are filled with happy, bustling couples, shopping bags and buoyant conversations, a cheer in the air. Theo suddenly and desperately wants to be back on his couch, book open and uninteresting in his lap. He passes the cigarette back. “Boris, I’m beat. I think I should turn in.” Boris opens his mouth to protest, so Theo beats him to the punch. “No, really. I’m sorry—if I had known you were coming, I would’ve—I just didn’t—” 

There was a time when Boris could’ve convinced him to do anything. He feels a strange pride in saying no. Boris observes him with a thin-set mouth but then nods. “Okay. I understand. But I left a bag at your place, so I will have to come back with you to get it.”

Had Boris even brought a bag? Theo doesn’t remember. Still, he doesn’t have much of a choice, and there’s no harm in stopping by.

“Okay,” Theo says. Okay.

***

Boris pulls his coat off the second they’ve stepped inside, and hangs it carefully on the coat rack. There hadn’t been an invite. Boris has never needed one. “Got to take a piss,” he says, and starts off for the back of the apartment, as if he’s a seasoned houseguest and knows exactly where everything is. He opens a closet, curious, glances around, organized jackets and unpacked boxes, and then closes the door and keeps going. “Make me a drink, would you? One for the road?”

Theo figures a final drink couldn’t hurt. It is Boris’s birthday, after all. He’s got a bottle of Tanqueray on the counter, half-empty, storebrand tonic waters and a sad lemon, a few days past its prime. He’s stirring it together with a spoon when Boris reappears and accepts an ice-heavy glass from Theo. He takes a sip of his own, swishes it between his teeth. To Theo, a gin and tonic has always tasted like pine needles, like bad decisions, like Boris. He takes another drink.

“Very nice,” Boris says appreciatively. “Long ways away from cheap vodka from the bottle, hm? How fancy we have become. Remember when we would pour into old coffee cups, take them with us when we’d go out? Like young entrepreneurs! We thought we were so clever.”

“You learned that from your dad, right?”

Boris nods gravely. “Is a trick he used at church.”

Theo perches on a stool at the counter; Boris drops down onto the sofa and props himself up with a throw pillow, like he’s settling in for the night. _One for the road_ , he’d said. He manages not to spill a drop. Theo’s got a decent buzz going on, and he should feel lightheaded and loose, except that he’s anchored down by something else, settled heavy on his shoulders. He swirls his drink around and stares into the glass.

“What is wrong with you?” Boris demands, flapping a hand at him. “So moody. Smile, Potter! I know you know how.” 

“What? I’m fine.”

Boris hums suspiciously, but then taps his pointer finger against his temple like he’s worked out the solution to a particularly tricky puzzle. “Ah. I know. You are still upset that I did not tell Babcia that we are not a couple.” He _tsks_ at Theo, prim and reprimanding. “You care so much about what this stranger thinks of you!” 

“No, I don’t,” Theo mutters, and realizes that his teeth are gritted. He forces his jaw to relax, takes another drink. 

“I’ll go back tomorrow, yes? I’ll bring a picture of you, say, remember him? Not dating me. Very heterosexual, this man. Real lady-fucker.”

“Fuck _off_ , Boris.” 

Boris studies him, really studies him; sharp-eyed and curious, like he’d done when they were young. Like he could see through him. When he was a kid he could withstand it, cast aside with booze and rash decisions, curtailed by fumbled hands and breathless laughter—a suspicious lack of talking about it the next day, talking about it ever—but now— _now_ —

“No,” Boris agrees much, too late. “You are right. You don’t care what Babcia thinks about you. You care about what _you_ think about you. And this, I think, you are not sure.”

“What are you even talking about? Seriously, fuck off.”

“You want to yell at me? Or hit me? I can tell, it is one of those.” Boris sits up, pushes his sleeves towards his elbows, pale forearms held up in pitiable surrender. “Go ahead. Make you feel better.”

It’s maybe the alcohol, but Theo pauses to consider; he doesn’t want to hit Boris. He has no idea what he wants. For a long time he’d thought it was something he’d gain with age, but here he is, all these years later, no resolution, no clarity. He has money, he has an apartment he doesn’t care about; he doesn’t have many friends. He doesn’t have a girlfriend or a desire to find one. He doesn’t have a family. He has a drink every night and a dog. He has Boris in his living room, unexpected. That’s all he knows.

"You made me think what we did, that—it was just what kids did,” he mumbles, the words tumbling out of him, looking anywhere but at Boris. He doesn’t black out anymore, these days. Hadn’t felt the need to. He wants another drink.

Boris is still looking at him strangely. He lowers his arms, and then he stands up. Puts his glass down on the coffee table, crosses the room. He stops short in front of Theo, and he looks the same, smells the same, the best part of Theo’s adolescence tied up before him, and he reaches out and puts his hands on Theo’s shoulders, his grip holding Theo steady. Like it had so many times before. “We _were_ kids, Potter,” he says, quiet but intentional. “What we did… was what kids did.”

Then why, Theo thinks, had it always seemed so—

“You never felt like a kid. I know this. But Theo—” Boris leans forward, face hovering inches from Theo’s, alcohol sharp on his breath, dark eyes painfully sincere. _“We were kids.”_

He’s right: he was a fucking child. They both were. Dealt a shitty hand in life, sure, but the choices he’d made after—the things they’d done—there’s time to fix it. He’s dead set on fixing it. Boris brings a hand up to the side of Theo’s neck, fingers curled against his throat, light. Theo remembers other fuzzy parts of Boris’s fourteenth birthday: Boris’s breath hot against his neck, a finger tapped against Theo’s bottom lip, new sensations and Boris’s reassuring laugh, _it’s okay, Potter, it’s okay_ , the shitty cake forgotten in the kitchen—

“It’s okay, Potter,” Boris says now, tips his forehead against Theo’s; his eyes slide shut. So many years between these birthdays, and yet—Boris hadn’t come back to New York with him, last time or this, but he’s here now, and maybe that’s enough of a start.

“Happy birthday,” Theo breathes. He can feel Boris smile.


End file.
